


Volé

by Perchance



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perchance/pseuds/Perchance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a mission, d'Artagnan and Athos get themselves into some trouble, plot riddled with angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 

The drum of hooves seemed distant, heavy, and rhythmic. The beat of each hoof striking the frozen soil seemed to mirror the drops of blood falling steadily from the gash on his forehead. Blood left a watery trail down his nose, where it paused, pooling slightly before falling heavily and loudly on the rock below. D’Artagnan swore he could hear the drop of each singular bead, see the crimson curve of each splash as it ricocheted off the icy cold, but the ringing in his ears was so loud he couldn’t be sure of anything. The lull of it all, the familiarity of the sounds made his eyelids heavy, his mouth already dry and still tasting of copper. The sounds seemed to mingle, distorted, the world seemed to tilt, and the sound of the blood dripping, no, the horses pounding hooves rang in his ears. D’Artagnan knew they’d already been gone longer than expected and with Athos the way he was, any travel from this point onwards would be a struggle in the least. He thought to himself that he shouldn’t be so ready to enjoy this specific mark, but then, he shouldn’t be here at all, any more. The wind was bitterly cold, snapping greedily at d’Artagnan’s nose, his bare neck and uncovered fingers, leaving them red; numb as they grasped the cold rock of the hillside. He felt raw, worn down from the journey here, and even more-so from the fight with the guards. Even in thinking of it now, he cursed himself, and let his head drift downwards to rest briefly on the icy rock face. Athos and d’Artagnan had been travelling far from any known trails, taking the slow and arduous task of navigating the rugged and snow laden country of France on their way to a supposedly small group holding up in a once abandoned fort. Athos had received a message urging him to set out for this place, and d’Artagnan knew he wouldn’t have done so, so blindly, and ill prepared if it weren’t for the smell of Milady de Winter’s perfume which had clung to the parchment.

 

D’Artagnan sighed, his breath visible in front of him as he recognised the sound of chainmail and the clutter of hooves again, the patrol getting closer to the small camp they had made at the top of an escarpment. They were close enough to barely see the fort, had it been daylight still, the walls of it seemed taller than even the trees, and he swore the letter had said the fort was old, destroyed and broken. With the snow falling, and the night air leeching any remanent of warmth from the landscape, d’Artagnan wondered how the two of them were supposed to ever get close enough to get inside without being spotted and killed from one of the towers on the wall. He supposed that perhaps, that was the point of it all. Baited here so recklessly, and killed so that their bodies froze and remained hidden, lost under the inches of snow and ice. D’Artagnan hadn’t the energy to be mad, but he was furious with Milady, and furious with Athos, the foolish idiot who had willingly thrown himself into a mission he knew to be a trap. 

Thinking of the man now, d’Artagnan’s heart stuttered. He seemed so much older, so much more frail than he did in d’Artagnan’s head. Lying on the ground, covered by a thin, fraying blanket with no fire for warmth, Athos looked half dead already, his breath shallow and slow with sleep. The horses were hobbled down the hillside, by the river that the bodies of the dead guards were tossed into only hours ago. All four of them had been long dead by the time they hit the bottom. Only one had being sliced clean through with d’Artagnan’s blade before the remaining three put up more of a fight. D’Artagnan moved to sit by Athos as he remembered what had happened earlier that day. He was tired, but refused to let himself sleep while Athos rested, and Athos need the rest so much more desperately. Even in sleep, Athos held an arm across the wound on his stomach, but it wasn’t that wound which worried d’Artagnan. After d’Artagnan had taken out one of the men, another had stepped forward, much more prepared and shockingly quick with his sword. They both realized at that point that the men they encountered were not easily dispatched bandits with badly forged weapons, but rather trained swordsmen, talented with their blades and quick on their feet. Their leather armour was darkly dyed, fitted with metallic buckles and straps, and their embroidered, brocade caplets spoke of a far wealthier scheme. Two circled Athos, whose eyes darted angrily between the two men facing him. Neither seemed like they wanted to make the first move. D’Artagnan was preoccupied with the man in front of him, and wanted to get rid of him quickly as to help Athos. His heart raced, and he berated himself for getting distracted. Athos was a miraculous swordsman, but the way the two bandits circled made d’Artagnan’s nerves skyrocket. The man in front of him slashed at his left, the sword racing through the air leaving barely enough time for d’Artagnan to bring his own sword up in response. He blocked the blow and tried to deliver a swift kick to the man’s shins but he had already backed off. This time he was on the defensive, blocking d’Artagnan’s swings with what seemed like little effort. Each time he seemed to be getting overwhelmed he back off even further, so much so that d’Artagnan was getting too far from Athos for his comfort. The man seemed to handle walking backwards on the soft, slippery snow with ease, but he was backing himself towards the icy riverbed. D’Artagnan made for a quick jab at the man’s stomach and twisted to slash at his side, bringing his rapier up to viciously swipe the sword from the man’s hands, letting it clang to the ground.

“What do you want?” d’Artagnan had questioned sharply, his sword levelled at the man’s neck. The man spat in response, muttered something roughly under his breath and made a grab for a knife on his belt. Before he could make to lunge for d’Artagnan, a sword was driven swiftly through his stomach, but the momentum from his fall forward onto the rapier brought the man’s knife down to graze d’Artagnan’s forehead and leave him blinking blood from his lashes. D’Artagnan cursed his wasted time in questioning the man, as he heard a groan from Athos. When he had turned around, Athos was holding his stomach, already falling to his knees in pain. D’Artagnan had expected them to kill him before he even had time to get to them, half way across the clearing. Instead one pulled out a length of rope and looked to bind Athos’ hands. Athos, with one hand still on his wound, pulled his gun free from its holster at his waist, and fired at the closest man, his body slumping swiftly to the ground. D’Artagnan had brought the attention of the final bandit and had quickly sliced the man’s neck with his rapier. He remembered now, the spray of blood wetting the snow, the man’s body landing with a heavy, gurgling, thump. 

The gash on his leg was narrow but deep, sinewy muscle carved into with ease. All d’Artagnan could be grateful for was that it was clean. He had used the river water to wash the wound, but Athos had lost a lot of blood, and the only bandaging they had were the blankets from their travel packs. So d’Artagnan tore his blanket into rough strips and tried to keep the pressure on while he wrapped the gash. He wanted to take his time, make sure he did a good job, but they were out in the open, able to be seen from across the clearing, all along the river, and even from up the hillside. D’Artagnan had frozen at that point, his hands covered in drying blood, some already flaking, and some still thick and sticky, leaking from the torn flesh of Athos’ thigh. He felt as if the blood would never come clean from under his nails.  
“D’Artagnan,” Athos had managed to wisp out, “get on with it, we need to move. Up there will do,” he had pointed. D’Artagnan wanted to fall to his knees beside his friend and stay there in the cold to rest his eyes, even just briefly. Instead, he had hauled the surly older man to his feet with a groan, hoisted his arm over his shoulders and began the slow assent upwards. He used branches for support, dug his leather boats deep into the snow and pretended not to hear the small pained noises when Athos’ leg bumped against the rocky outcrops in the hopes or a fleeting chance for rest. Pausing up the hillside, d’Artagnan noticed the trail of red in the snow, the mess of their footprints, and frantically snapped branches. He tried to move faster, rushing as he dragged Athos to the outcrop above the escarpment. It would be so divinely void of any blasted snow, he knew, and they needed to settle themselves before night descended entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

Sitting up there now, d’Artagnan debated with himself. Athos had urged him to stay, urged him to continue after those in the fort, and had so adamantly and viciously told him that he had, “better not be a fool about this,” before letting his eyes drift shut, exhausted and drained. D’Artagnan wanted so desperately to put Athos on a horse at first light, and ride back with him to Paris to get Aramis and Porthos before they both ended up dead. D’Artagnan felt like he needed them, needed their wise cracks, camaraderie and the sense of trust he’d come to rely on in all situations. Now, without them here, with Athos relying on him, he was at loss of what to do. Athos was the leader, he always knew where to be, how to do what was needed and d’Artagnan didn’t feel like he had even an ounce of the wit which Athos possessed. His head throbbed, the cut on this forehead still wept, and d’Artagnan could no longer blink the tiredness from his eyes. The blackness of the sky, with the moon covered by a dense smattering of clouds, filled him with a sense of foreboding as he finally gave in to sleep. 

Athos woke at first light, to find d’Artagnan snoring softly, leaning partly over him against the rock behind his head. He sighed, stifling the pain that came to him with each passing moment of gaining consciousness. The ground was damp, frosty, his side ached dully, and he cursed his own stupidity in letting two bandits overwhelm him. He wanted so desperately to blame it on the icy rocks of the river bed, to say it were the entire fault of the snow, that his boots were laced too loose in the rush to get ready that morning, or even to be able to claim the sun were in his eyes, but internally he knew it were truly his attention on d’Artagnan that had made him trip. He wondered even now why his throat hadn’t been sliced clean through the moment his sword hit the ground. Looking up at d’Artagnan now, he noticed the graze on his forehead and frowned at the lack of care d’Atagnan had given it. It was crusted with blood, hadn’t been bandaged or cleaned, he hadn’t even covered himself in blanket before seeming to collapse against the rock. Of course the damn idiot hadn’t thought to look after himself Athos thought to himself, always endangering himself, the reckless, headstrong fool. Already Athos knew it would be a battle to convince the young Gascon to go through with the mission, but already his side felt better, bruised and stiff by the wound did not gape, it did not feel hot and it hadn’t began to weep. The cut on his leg was tender, and his energy still felt drained from the blood he knew he had lost. The makeshift bandage, he hated to admit, had bled through in patches, but the wound was tightly bound and it too, did not feel heated. 

 

Feeling slightly trapped under d’Artagnan’s sleeping form, Athos coughed pointedly, eyebrows raised at d’Artagnan as he jolted awake. 

 

“Athos?” d’Artagnan groaned out, voice course from sleep, he blinked and rubbed at his eyes, hissing slightly as he touched the still tender cut, “How… how are you feeling… are you feeling better, at all?”

 

Athos’ hand twitched, wanting to stop d’Artagnan from jabbing and poking the wound above his brow, but he merely glowered at him instead. “Of course,” he stated, attempting a tone that brooked no argument. 

D’Artagnan quirked a small smile, standing slowly and taking a drink from his emptying oil skin, offering it to Athos silently.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, I doubt we can move much today at all,” he said quietly, taking in Athos’ form. The older man did seem brighter, but by no means was he fit enough to be mobile or riding, of that he was certain. 

Athos seemed to ignore him entirely, “Water from the river would be nice,” he said, instead. “Clean up that head wound of yours while you’re down there.” 

 

Athos watched the young musketeer make the short trek down the hillside, trying to pull himself up into a sitting position. The effort of it made his eyes close, his abdomen sore and stiff, but the muscles didn’t spasm in pain like he had expected. The blanket slid to his waist, allowing cold, refreshing air to brace against his skin. The wind breezing straight through his loose undershirt shocked him awake, gave him the energy to pull himself upwards till his feet where beneath him but his weight rested heavily on the rock face. The corner of his mouth tilted downwards in a small frown as he tested his weight on his injured right leg. It felt as if the weight of his standing pressed the edges of the wound together, tender and aching. Still, the leg held his weight and Athos thought to himself that that was all that was needed for him to keep moving forward.

D’Artagnan seemed unsurprised but exasperated upon his return to their camp to see Athos standing already. 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos seemed to warn, “We have to get to that fort, there is no time to think of anything else. You know those bandits weren’t France’s average outlaws.”

This, d’Artagnan knew, was true. Their red caplets, polished gold buckles on their leather amour, and the fine brocade detail had stood out against the crisp white snow. D’Artagnan remembered the way the thick, heavy material had looked in the water, as the men sank. It had floated briefly, ballooning above the water with trapped air before it sank and twisted downwards, into the icy black depths. 

He moved to look at the wrapped wound on Athos’ thigh, it was true enough that it wasn’t hot, or swollen, yet, but it would certainly hinder the older musketeer’s movement in a fight. 

“That may be true…”

 

“It is,” Athos interrupted. He was standing straighter now, leaning less and less on the rock face. He made to reach for their travel packs, to retrieve a meagre breakfast from their supplies.   
“But,” d’Artagnan pressed on, “you can’t be at your best right now, surely. We would just be making it even more dangerous for ourselves.”

 

“I know what I’m capable of,” Athos returned, taking a sip from the oilskin d’Artagnan had filled.

D’Artagnan scowled, “there was blood everywhere,” he swallowed, “all over my hands, on the river bed, in the water…” he trailed off, looking down. He cleared his throat, pausing. 

Giving a visible effort, he straightened up, looking at Athos’ face, “I don’t think you’re fit to travel today,” he stated, “And, if you are, I want to return to Paris.”

Athos’ reaction gave nothing but the minutest twitch of his brow. “Even after being bandaged it bled through. We weren’t prepared, didn’t bring medical supplies. What if it gets infected?” he finished. 

 

Athos softened, giving one of his drawn brow smiles. “No,” he said simply, “we’re heading closer to the fort today.” D’Artagnan looked displeased. “If there are too many men,” he conceded, “we will retrieve the mounts return to Paris immediately.”

 

D’Artagnan sighed, “I understand, really, but don’t you think we would be better off with ‘Mis and Porthos with us? Or even other musketeers?” Athos was already strapping his scabbard to his waist, buttoning up his leather vest and lacing his shoulder guard down. 

Athos raised a single eye brow, “wouldn’t they already be on their way?” He asked, “You did, after all leave them a note, did you not?” d’Artagnan laughed, his hand moving awkwardly to the back of his neck. 

“Only because I wasn’t sure if…,” he started.

“It’s alright, I knew you wouldn’t leave without letting those two scoundrels know we hadn’t abandoned them both with the mess the city has been lately,” he said, splashing a handful of water on his face and running his fingers through his untidy hair. “And no, that doesn’t mean we are going to wait for them, we’ll head up closer to the fort, scout out what we’re up against.”

With that, Athos sent to walking north towards the location of the fort, limping through the dense snow but determined to keep moving forward. D’Artagnan rushed to buckle his scabbard and lace his sleeves before following Athos into the dense forest ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this chapter, I have a huge plan for this story, but have never posted anything I've written online and am really not sure if I should keep posting. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, especially in regard to keeping dialogue and such in character. I would love any advice. 
> 
> Thank you and I hope you're enjoying this so far. :)


End file.
